InsaneJournal

WHO: Claire Saunders. Corner crew can tag in if they want, but works as a narrative.
WHAT: Facing her fear.
WHEN: In the wee hours of the morning.
WHERE: Her apartment.
RATING: PG13 to be safe. Some blood, violence.



Terror was an emotion that Claire Saunders was particularly familiar with. Of the relatively short time she’d spent living, actually living in flesh and bone, she had spent a large portion of it overcome with fear. She’d feared for her life more times than she cared to admit. Most of those incidents involved knives.

Claire really hated knives.

Now she was fumbling through the kitchen of her apartment, trying to find something to defend herself with, because she was so sure there was something in the shadows, lurking there, watching her. She could feel his eyes on her. She could feel him waiting for her. She could even hear him, she could hear him and all of the other actives in faint echoes. Delta said, you’re number one, Whiskey. You’re your best. You’re always your best, Tango said. She felt like she was trapped in one of those god damned sleeping pods. Banging on the lid of her shallow grave. Screaming for help. Only receiving empty praises in return. You’re always your best, they said. You’re number one, they said.

Let Echo be number one.

She screamed and thrashed against her imaginary attacker, grabbing a carving knife by the wrong side. The reality of the pain did little to help the foggy delusions she was having. The reality of the open wound on her hand that was so deep it didn’t hurt, and just throbbed as it bled, wasn’t substantial. Alpha was right there. She pressed her hands against her face and collapsed against the counter, unaware of her injury. Aware only that her face was now covered in blood.

She couldn't even scream.